


The Blind Storm

by Tedston



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11117991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tedston/pseuds/Tedston
Summary: Does it take a miracle to save everyone on a ship voyaging towards its' own end?





	The Blind Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a-mild-looking-sky (aronnaxs)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/gifts).



> Hello!
> 
> So I thought I'd give a go on my first Moby-Dick fic and here I am! I'd also like to dedicate this to the delightful a-mild-looking-sky for putting up with my craziness these past few days and supporting me all through the way :DD
> 
> Enjoy!

     There is always the calm after the storm, that silence after the chaos, the peace after the war of the 7 seas. It makes Starbuck think that there is little hope left for this doomed ship. He wonders, staring into the forever-stretching blue before his eyes, what else he could have done to save himself, and the rest from a voyage that is soon known to be their end.

     He wishes to return, to home -- Nantucket. To smell the freshly baked bread every morning, to feel the soft fabric of his bed he shares with his wife at home, to see the faces of his family and neighbours that he fears he now has forgotten -- those memories, faded into this mist existent only inside his own weary mind since the first moment he contravened his captains' unfruitful quest for the White Whale... That, atleast, is what Starbuck thinks.

     "What a delicate bright mornin' you'd say eh, Mr. Starbuck?" His brown eyes avert to the newly-woke Mr. Stubb -- hairs' a mess, standing on the deck with eyes squinted from the effulgent sea sun that made them all look ages older than their own age. "I mean, it's the same ol' scenery everyday but atleast yer' looking pretty today,"

     "Aye, Morning, Mr. Stubb," Starbuck replies nonchalantly. He observes how Stubb does not seem to mind where this ship leads -- always jovial and energised for anything. Just as if he does not mind the conception of dying. Perhaps the only way to care in this life is not to care at all.

     Starbuck takes in the salty air and exhales his perceived thoughts out, instead fixates on what is important. "Have you awoken the others? I'd relish you mates to immaculate the—"

     "Ah, Ishmael woke us all up, sir, and ah, of course, the deck!" Stubb smiled as he culminated his sentence, awaiting for anymore of his first mates' orders to emerge. "Er... I suppose that is all, Mr. Starbuck?" Though his smile starts to die as Stubb watches Starbucks' blank expression staring back.

     "Good, that is all you men are going to do today," He answers with a cold tone. Starbuck faces his heels but ceases and says, "Unless if a whale transpires to surface then you men will ken what to do," then ambulates off the deck, leaving Stubb alone and quite dumbfounded to this entire thing.

     His loud steps down interrupts the mass below, making heads turn to him abruptly. Most of the crew members were still in bed, though getting up immediately as Starbuck passes by. The first chief mate of the ship ignores the faces staring until he discerns Ishmael in the crowd -- that man possibly knows him better at everything better than others do -- and so he enters his cabin, waiting for them all to ascend above for work and him to be left alone at rest.

     Not soon after he shuts his door and settles himself, he hears Stubb giving his order -- authorising the crew to get their pails and brushes -- then proceeds to listen to the vigorous steps among the men until the last person leaves the cabin... silence. Just like how he wanted. Just the waves crashing and splashing and swinging him back to this pained reality.

     As he sits in the quiet, the same excruciating ache in his head reemerges. He was not sure what made him feel this way. Ever since what seemed to be an issue from an unknown source became a great tribulation. And so he reposes himself against his bed and stares tirelessly at the brown wood above him.

     Starbuck wanders off into his own world as the strikes of the tidal waves repeats itself. This ship must be a lifetime older than me, he wonders. Old but not old enough to witness the birth of the White Whale.

     Crash! The waves hit the old woods of this ship and his thoughts reset again. Starbuck knew for well he was not seasick. Seasick, what a weak condition for a weak man. But what if he was seasick? Does that make him a weak man? A weak man -- controlled and confined by an uncontrollable desire cast by the craze of his captain.

     Crash! Home. He misses home. He misses everything. He misses the gestures offered by his family back there. He wishes he could scream into Ahab's' face until the sails of this ship conclusively turn to face the way back home. But wait, he could do that now. He could just get up from this rotting cabin and storm into the captains' room and get a gun and--

     Knock. A sudden knock? Starbuck gave a few seconds and ascertained it was not his mind making things up. Then came the knock again. He raises himself and prehends his dark jacket incase someone above made some quandaries. He puts it on and gave it a swish brush, reaches his door and gave a turn to its' knob.

     "Morning, Mr. Starbuck," Ishmael, with his customary grey flat cap covering his curls and his usual quirky smile -- not someone he would expect around the A.M. in his own lodging. "May... I come in for a moment?" Starbuck suddenly feels something in himself threatened. Again, he is unsure, though the young man seems quite harmless as far as his pair of eyes can see.

     He clears his throat and voices, "Ah, Ishmael, of course, come in," then descries a diminutive book being carried by his friend -- quite an aberrant act for men like them but who is there to blame? "What have made ye' come forward to face me?" Starbuck shuts the door and prepares for whatever odds his friend offers for him this time.

     Was there a problem? Starbuck thinks. Ahab must have sent this man here, suppositiously. No, maybe Stubb, agh, am I going mad? Starbuck knew Ishmael was quite this well-mannered man -- something like himself -- silent, ostensibly religious and more...blissful.

     Isn't he himself jubilant though? He questions and gets disoriented sooner than he can stop himself yet again. "I heard Stubb announced that you were in some sort of distress, sir?" Distress? Why is everyone suddenly a bother of my own quandaries now? Starbuck puts up a plastic smile in reciprocation to Ishmaels' question.

     "Supposedly I haven't gotten enough sleep lately, Ishmael," Starbuck returns to his bed and sits as comfort mitigates his aching head. "But I'll be alright just afore you know it,"

     "Ah, I understand then, Mr. Starbuck," Suddenly, Ishmael glows and shuffles through his little book. "Oh!" He exclaims, "I've additionally come to ask something of my own if... you recollect this," Ishmael struggles with his hand as multiple papers start to fall out from his little book that made him stop.

     "That's fine, no desideratum for papers, Ishmael," the whaler ceases as he was told so. "Ask what you've come to ask and I'll be more than delectated to answer," Starbuck lowers himself and grab hold of the pieces, accumulating them up and placing it on his worktable for Ishmael.

     Papers... he visually perceives. Drawings, sketches, to be specific. Most of them whales, parts and little notes. Then a ship, a lamentably drawn one with Queequegs' name indited on the bottom.

     Starbuck suddenly feels an immense colossal encumbrance watching a young man shifting through his book. Just as he recollects long ago -- something he used to be regaled of simply by looking at his own young sons' art.

     As if his mind could be read, Ishmael gives up and folds back his book, slipping the papers inside then turns back his attention to Starbuck. "Alright then, but I do hope you still remember what you've written on that piece of paper," Starbuck listens patiently for that one thing this moment had to offer. "I've come to ask you, sir, if you remember what day this is?"

     Day... today? Candlemas? No... this is already pass Candlemas. Christmas? He wishes, but then what day is it? "No, unfortunately, I do not, what is with today that has your concerns, Ishmael?"

     "Mr. Starbuck," in a voice that made Starbucks' mind stop ticking for a moment. "It's your birthday today," he feels a beat or two of his heart stopped, it made Ishmael thought he had said something erroneous from the looks of the pale Nantucket Quaker.

     Starbucks' ears started ringing as he senses himself losing control. He sights Ishmael far in the distance, slowly but surely fading further -- feeling the pain of the pains in his head as a low but mighty whirring of waves and wood came to his mind and...

     Crash! Blind, for a moment -- Starbuck is suddenly seated on a grand chair, he remembers here, remembers their kitchen, a spacious table, delicacies and such filled above it, with this familiar white light coalescing into a golden sunlit scene -- strangers, perhaps, all stood tall on their heels and something on his lap, a person, an adolescent boy -- around the age of 3 to 4 years-old judging from the weight.

     A mellow scent filled his nose, a rather genial mood in the air. He swore he felt peace, calm -- even if it was for a short period of time, he was smiling like the king of the world. Does he try looking around -- floral designs, fabric covers, M- Mary? God, he was home again.

     " _Father!_ " Somewhere, somehow, he heard his son. A son he will never see grow up, a son that will never know how much his father had missed him being in the seas. The boy turns to face him with a bright face. " _The candles aren't lit yet!_ "

     The candles, of course! But... no, he couldn't speak. He could only sense, only see. Then this boy raises from his lap, standing and immediately dragging Starbuck up from the chair. He heard waves of laughter around him as he was led. Oddly enough, everyone else's faces had no such features; no eyes, no noses, no mouths. Just... plain dark white.

     Though he didn't seem to mind, he was home, with his son who was still frolicsomely dragging him across his home, leading the two of them to the living room. It was when his child's' hand was released, he could see a little more pellucid, the pictures hanging below the staircase. Particularly where there were 3 of them; him, his comely Mary, and of course his long-missed son.

     It tears him -- seeing every single detail, the old glass cabinet, the same furniture, the Grandfather Clock. Everything is just how he had remembered. Before he could even catch his own breath, the boy abruptly pulls him back to the kitchen after finding a classic street chrome lighter hidden in a drawer.

     Perhaps it was a mistake keeping it somewhere facilely found, he thinks. Otherwise, he wouldn't care being put into his seat multiple times and seeing his son lighting his cake for him.

     Mary came along, with her delicate floral pink dress he remembers worn during his departure on Christmas morning. She steps to her husbands' side and wished him, giving Starbuck a quick peck on his cheeks and waits for everyone to subside

     When it was finally time, the mass amassed by the table and put their voices together for a wondrous singing on Starbucks' very own special day. Being in this moment this was all he could have ever asked, despite what the sea could do to a man being at for many, many months, what madness could it have ever spark.

     Though the end of the singing came upon a realisation to Starbuck sensing a wronging -- what seemed to be a delightful moment became more violent; claps became shouts and voices became impertinent laughters. It engendered a perpetual echo he wishes would end by now, a homogenous situation he had been in not so long ago in this life.

     Sudden darkness overcame the room -- growing wider, closer and closer to him while the rest of the mass fades until the last 2 people he loves remained. Mary and his son walks to his front, him still in his chair while a dark-blue cake is held in the hands of his son.

     Words screamed in his head, wanting to shout and jump to his family telling how thankful and how much he misses them. But he couldn't, sitting while his heart aches for their contact as three pieces of candles burns before his eyes on his 30th Birthday.

      Darkness, emptiness -- now just the three of them facing each other in an endless void once filled with the shining sun and a jolly mass. He looks up to see face the eyes of his family, slowly fading like the yellow flame -- smiling, looking down to a broken man until a mere whisper of their last few words lays unto his ears.

     The flame dies -- all that was left in his dream was himself and only himself. Was this a test from God? A small rage came upon Starbucks' heart. Was it a punishment for being obstinate towards his own people, for being the Starbuck Ahab now detest, for being a chief mate his crew could not look upon now. Good God, he is only a man.

     An intense heat burns on his skin, wind gushing and now stood on his legs alone somewhere he cannot see. He sights quite a bright light above him and all he could think was the words, actions, regret he had lived his entire life. But no, he knew for well this wasn't the end and...

     Crash! He was blinded once again -- this time only to be held onto a young man by his side, his eyes fixes onto the sun and so reveals Ishmael -- holding a piece of bread, with a tiny piece of paper sticked, burning, and quite a cheerful Captain Ahab standing tall by his side. He looks up and sees everyone gathered with exchanged smiles and glasses in hands.

     Starbuck was back.

     The men seem to have put a halt to his order as there were pails and mops and brushes scattered. He didn't mind that this time, he didn't mind it at all. The ache in his head was gone, thankfully, and he could not stop a smile to form on his face.

     Though it was quite a horrifying experience, Starbuck admits. The parallels made it quite clear to him, perhaps the ones who care for you the most is right there in front of you. Little hope, he told himself before. And this was given to him.

     A grand event for the members of a lost ship, sailing into its' own end. It takes a miracle for them all to be saved, but he thinks again. What actually can he have done to save them all?

     "Make a wish, Mr. Starbuck," Ishmael offers the tray of bread, waiting for the moment until they all can celebrate this delightful day en masse beneath the deck. "Come on, times' a wastin," Ishmael speaks again.

     Maybe there is a calm after the storm, maybe that silence after the chaos was no silence, and the peace among this war in the 7 seas. He hopes for it, prays for it, desires for it, but this time, he could turn it into something more meaningful than that; a wish.

     And alas, the flame was blown. The mass roared for celebration -- glasses clanked and foots stomped. Starbuck witnesses something he had done -- a wish more potent than Gods' will to salvage themselves from their own terminus.

     For once, he feels happy being on this damned ship. Ishmael then expeditiously abstracts the papers from spoiling the bread and paces off along with Queequeg down, the cheers quieted and every men descend from the deck. Starbuck, still awestruck by the crew's affection towards him, trails along abaft the last mens to the stairs.

     "Mr. Starbuck!" A shout emanated from behind. Starbuck turns and faces a jubilant old man with his arms open coming towards him, the uniform immediately tells him it is his Captain. "Happy 30th Birthday you chap!" Quite an aberrant act yet again, but he embraced it with his open heart this time.

     He senses a mere change in everyone's' head. Well, huge chance it was the alcohol but again Ahab's Ahab, no deeds has ever changed him until this moment. The two men pull back from the endearment -- another wide smile came along Starbuck seeing his own Captain never in a way before.

     Home. "Thank You, Captain," Turn this ship and sail back for Nantucket. Starbuck resists, shutting his own words at the back of his head. It is not too late for a wish to come true.

     "Ah, don't thank me just yet!" Let the words out, Starbuck -- perhaps Ahab will listen to you in this moment. "It's not ye' birthday if it doesn't have gifts," The captain beams as he struggles to fit his hands inside his coat. "So here's a little treat for ye'"

     The object shines in Starbucks' eyes, "A... lighter?" Captain Ahab places it in Starbucks' hand as he immediately studies the metal craft. It came to a pained entelechy that it was a kindred lighter his son had used to light his cake a daydream ago.

     "Aye, I've held onto it for quite a while now," He runs his fingers over its' texture -- warm as the sun, hard as a stone. "It came to mind it ought to be nice and useful for ye' stead' being on my racks for eternity," Starbuck clutches onto it and paid his attention back to his Captain.

     He thinks for a while, holding the gift he received in place and reminded himself supposedly he himself is not a weak man. With these affections and thoughtful men around, weakness is a mere fault that we, humans have outdone ourselves with.

     "Alright, Mr. Starbuck," Ahab puts a hand on his first mates' shoulder. "I suppose I'll see ye' down there, yeah?"

     "Aye, I'll join you men in scarcely," Starbuck receives a pat on his shoulder. With a proud smile, Captain Ahab heads off to the stairs, down to the cabin and knocking the old woods with his whalebone leg. He keeps the lighter inside his pocket, then continues to stare back into the wide sea with strong winds whispering in his ears.

     He stands alone by the deck, breathing into a life, a voyage not long from now where his soul would soon join the dead sailors into heaven. A massive storm arrives over the horizon, he sees. But with this lighter he now yearns to, he shall finally have light in this mist existent only inside his own weary mind.

     Gradually, but surely, the storms -- the inclemencies -- will swing and rock and disorientate this ship. Perhaps, even reveal the White Devil of the seas that Starbucks' captain crazes of. No, Starbuck did not mind that at all. But what he minds is the calm after the storm.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like writing and uploading this was an insult to the entire fandom, which I don't know how to feel about honestly so anyways, thoughts and feedbacks are greatly appreciated! :)


End file.
